


Visions of Sugarplums

by sammichgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Holiday Themes, M/M, Santa is Real, Wincest - Freeform, spoilers for season 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammichgirl/pseuds/sammichgirl
Summary: Sam's not had a vision like this one before.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Visions of Sugarplums

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 spnholidaymixtape, but not submitted to the challenge in time.

[ ](https://imgur.com/KCHy1yO)

Sam awoke with a start – not unusual for him these days – however he wasn’t drenched in sweat or breathing like he’d just run a marathon for his life. There was no niggling fear scratching at the back of his mind, no sense of dread that he’d again killed or been killed by his brother.

He felt sleep-warm, well rested, _happy_. And that, that shouldn’t sit right given his very existence in the world. He looked over his shoulder warily, certainly expecting a vision of Lucifer or Chuck himself to snatch it all away and finding…nothing. Just the other side of the bed all rumpled and empty, indicating Dean had already woken and was going about the typical morning routine.

Rubbing his eyes with the back of a hand he blinked a few times, stifled a yawn and pulled the blankets up a bit higher, snuggling back down into the warmth cocoon. It felt a bit chilly in the room, and as his vision cleared from slumber he could see the sun trying to peek through the blinds. Just a few more minutes to doze, he was so comfortable, he didn’t want to get up just yet.

Closing his eyes, he could feel the soft smile spreading across his face. Damn but this bed was really cozy. Maybe later he’d-

_Wait._

Sunlight? In the bedroom of the _bunker_?

He sat up and this time wildly looked around the room. He was not in the bunker. All senses switched to full alert as he wondered what fresh hell awaited him. This wasn’t a dream – he was awake, actively moving around as he got up and quietly made his way across the room. There was a good hard snow outside from what he could see through the window, and they had neighbors. There were houses across the street from where he was, up and down the road as far as his view could see. Looking around the bedroom, he took in the décor. It had a vaguely familiar homey ambiance, he could understand feeling at ease in this place. Except he didn’t know where this place was, where _he_ was. And that left him uneasy and on guard.

He took a split second to think about calling out for Dean before he was yelling, “Dean! DEAN!”

Crossing back to the bed he checked under the feather-soft pillows, just in case, but no knife. He had no weapon. Kitchen – he needed to get to the kitchen, there’d be knives there. Padding out of the bedroom barefoot, wearing just the sleep pants he’d had on, he found himself more confused than ever as he passed a display of framed pictures on the hallway wall. Pictures of him and Dean, including what looked like a _wedding_ picture.

Shapeshifter? Had he been kidnapped again? Maybe a spell? Like Becky that one time?

He realized he must be getting close to the kitchen as he scented what smelled like malted waffles and fresh roasted coffee beans perking. Holiday music was playing in another room, everything pointing to a kind of merry he’d never actually experienced.

His confusion only grew as he came around another corner to find Dean in the kitchen, making breakfast, completely unfazed to be doing so, wearing nothing but an apron that said _Kiss The Cook_. He had an easy smile and a soft light in those green eyes, both things Sam hadn’t seen in quite a while.

“Sammy! Baby, you’re up early, I thought you were going to sleep in?” Dean poured him a cup of steaming coffee and before Sam could say anything about the dark roast blend in front of him, much less anything about the situation they were in or the fact that his brother-lover was for all intents and purposes _naked_ , Dean had swirled around to pull out cream and sugar, placing them in front of him.

Sam stared at the fancy creamer, unsure what to say or do. It didn’t appear they were in any immediate danger. Dean seemed…a tad oblivious and a lot cheerier than usual. If they were at risk in any way, Dean would already be on top of it, so Sam relaxed a fraction, frowning as he poured cream into his coffee.

“Did I get you the wrong kind? I got eggnog. Did you want gingerbread? The eggnog’s probably too rich, right? I’ll pick up the gingerbread this afternoon after the cookie swap.” Dean poured more batter into the waffle maker, humming along to the music in the background, and Sam’s brain couldn’t manage to connect _any_ dots. Did he have a concussion?

Sam mentally started trying to sort the jumble of questions he had as he took a sip of coffee, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth and sweetness. They were in some very domestic house. A house that seemingly spoke of Winchester style; had they ever thought about decorating a home of their own, he felt it would be very much like this. There were pictures of them scattered around. Dean was bare ass naked, save for the apron, and was making them breakfast – both which were not completely out of the realm of possibility. Still, something wasn’t adding up and while nothing supernatural seemed to be at play –

_Wait._

“Dean. Did you say cookie swap?” He gulped the last swallow in the cup and watched his brother shake his head in exasperation.

“Don’t tell me you forgot, Sam. You were making the Keto cinnamon cheesecake cookies! Why everyone in the neighborhood is on this healthy high-fat, low-carb kick is beyond me, but at least we can still have cookies. And meat.” Dean hummed as he moved the stack of waffles to the table, pulling out butter and syrup. He poked Sam in the ribs as he passed, and Sam’s uncontrollable tickle reflex kicked in, making him chuckle. Dean opened the freezer and checked inside, nodding as he turned to smile fondly at Sam. “You had me worried, Sammy. Thank you for making them early. You know we’ve got a full day ahead. Eat up – I’m going to get ready.”

Sam stood as if frozen to the spot. He had a smile on his face from the tickling poke, but the rest of him was truly in fear now. This was not Dean.

Well. This was not HIS Dean. And this place, this was definitely not his world. The puzzle was not getting easier to solve. Where was this world’s Sam then? How was he going to get himself home? How was he going to get this Dean to understand what was happening?

As Sam sat back down at the table to start eating, he paid more attention to the home he was in. It had nuances of them, of the Sam and Dean he knew. It was definitely their home. However, there was nothing in this house that said hunter. Not even a safe house vibe. And this Dean had no survival instinct born and bred into him from such a life.

After finishing up, he cleared the table and then headed back to the bedroom. Dean was in the en suite bathroom shower, and Sam rifled through the closets. Very little flannel, no plaid. Lots of jeans and T-shirts, classic rock bands. Some things never change, he mused wryly. A few classic sweaters and dress shirt/pant combos. A collection of ties. A worn, somewhat faded red hoodie. As he unfolded it, he let out a soft gasp. _Stanford_.

“I know. I know dude, but I can’t get rid of it. It’s so soft with the years of me wearing it down, and well, it’s yours. I was proud of you for going and finishing, even if it’s not what mom and dad wanted for you.” Dean had come up behind him and wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist. He was still damp and warm and smelled faintly of some kind of woodsy citrus scent. “My big, smart, hot, lawyer-boy nerd of a husband.”

Sam felt his legs quiver, and he was caught from falling by Dean. “Hey, hey baby, you ok?”

“Yeah, no. No, I’m not fine.” Sam was suddenly close to snapping, this was all just insane. “Dean, this isn’t you. I mean, you’re you. And I, I’m not me, this isn’t me. I’m not the Sam you know, this isn’t. This world is not right. Dean, I’m not your Sam.” He was babbling, his heart was racing, and the concerned look Dean was giving him was throwing him off his game. He felt himself being led to the bed, moments later a cool washcloth across his forehead. Dean was stroking his hair, murmuring to him, soothing words.

“Baby, you’ve been so stressed, that case is really wearing you down. You need to relax, take some time off. It’s the holidays, they can spare you for a day, ok? I’m going to call in sick for you.” Pulling the comforter back up over him, Dean practically tucked him in before pulling out his phone and shutting the bedroom door almost closed. Moments later, he heard Dean talking, not quite making out the muffled words. He felt calmer, knowing whatever was happening his big brother was going to make it right. Dean always made it right.

Except this world wasn’t his. His parents were alive? He’d finished Stanford? He was an actual lawyer and somehow, someway, in an openly incestuous relationship with his brother? Yet in every other world he’d been in, he and Dean…

Sam sat up, immediately launching into self-preservation mode. Maybe this was a trick? Keyed up again, Sam pushed back the covers, sweating in apprehension as Dean returned.

“Sammy, what are you doing? Lay back down, babe. You’re having an anxiety attack. I’m going to make you some tea, you just lay here and let me take care of you, ok?” Dean gave a small nudge and Sam reluctantly laid back down. His pulse still racing, he tried to slow his breathing. Whatever was happening, he’d need to keep his wits about him and the best way to do that was to calm down. He was clearly on his own here, and trusting anyone, even Dean, was out of the question. Thinking that made him sad beyond measure. This world, this life, it seemed a happy one. As far as Sam could tell, they were content just to be together without all the drama from their very real life or the other universe peeks he’d seen.

Shutting his eyes, he began softly chanting memorized exorcisms in Latin. Hoping they would help clear his mind and let him focus, he evened out his breaths and said them backwards and forwards. Several hours later he awoke, again with a start. It was dark in the room, from the glow of a lamp he could see there was a full cup of now cold tea on the nightstand. Dean must have let him drift off thinking it was for the best, he thought.

As he sat up, he squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the light. He had a massive headache, almost like a hangover would feel. Should it be this dark in here? How long had he been asleep? He glanced over to the window and –

The window was gone. Scanning quickly, Sam took in the room. He was back, this was the bunker. Was it his real world though? Only one way to find out, he thought, swinging his legs out from the thick utilitarian style covers. He stood up, felt dizzy and had to sit back down.

The bedroom door opened as he tried again to get his footing beneath him.

“Whoah, Sammy. Sammy, hey, easy now, easy. Too much eggnog set you on your ass, sweetheart, remember? C’mon, let’s get back to bed. You didn’t even touch your coffee.”

Dean arranged Sam back under the blankets, brushing his hair off his face and kissing the tip of his nose very softly. Sam stayed tense until Dean climbed in beside him and spooned him. He reached up to feel under his pillow and the touch of the cool silver knife there gave him reassurance. He nestled back into Dean and let Dean kiss along his neck as a hand rubbed soft and slow along his stomach, soothing circles.

When morning finally came, Sam awoke to find he had turned over and curled into Dean’s embrace. He tried to remember the night before, but it was like a bad trip of holiday cheer. Had he dreamt the whole thing? It had been so real, he’d been so sure. He touched the gunshot wound on his shoulder and felt it thrum beneath his fingertips.

As he slid out from the bed to think about wandering towards the bathroom and taking a long hot shower and stretching his muscles, he noticed a small red envelope tucked into the book he’d been reading the day before, laying on his nightstand.

Plucking the small note that hadn’t been there before, he opened it, not quite believing what he read.

_"He doesn't control the outcome of every universe._

_Believe in the magic, Sam. Believe in you and Dean._

_Merry Christmas."_

_~Nicholas_

No. _No way_. Sam reread the note, then looked over to see Dean still sleeping, his hand having shifted up under his own pillow once Sam had left the bed. Sam knew there would be a loaded gun there, a touchstone to Dean just as Sam’s knife was.

He was back. This, this world was real. Craptastic though it was, he was glad to be back. And Santa – _freaking Santa Claus?_ – had given him the best gift of all for Christmas. He’d given him hope.

For the first time in a long time, Sam allowed himself to hope. Because he believed. He wholeheartedly believed in the magic of Winchesters. He tenderly touched the gunshot wound again. There was at least one world, and maybe more, where Chuck didn’t win. That meant they had more than a fighting chance.

Now, how he’d explain to Dean about Santa being real? **That** would take a Christmas miracle.


End file.
